Replica
Page 11
“Nice of you, but you know he’s right. I fucked up. See you at five thirty?”
Ollie nodded, and they parted. Nick ran up the steps beside the lift to burn off some of his frustration. What he needed to do was catch the girl, himself or him and Ollie, and hand her over to Pete with a red ribbon around her neck, preferably in front of the whole team. His self-respect was at stake; he was prepared to spend his own time on this for as long as it took. Not as if he had anything else to do. He paced along the empty corridor till he came to room 518, and walked in quietly without knocking. Beth’s red-gold head was bent over a file as she typed into an ancient computer; he had time before she saw him to appreciate her breasts in a tight black V-necked jumper. Her legs looked good in black tights, too. She turned to him and her face lit up.
“Nick! Is this where you work when you’re not sitting around in vans with Ollie?”
“Yes. I don’t have my own office, though, I have to share.” He glanced round the dingy room. At least his desk, though in an open plan area, had been kitted out later than 1985. “What have they got you doing?”
“Typing out lists.” Beth looked glum. “Not the most riveting of jobs. But occasionally someone rings and says we’re running out of toilet rolls or biros, and I order them, so that makes for a bit of excitement. Have you come to tell me you’re out of something? Invisible ink, perhaps, or bugging devices.”
“False moustaches. I used the last one yesterday. I’d like a dozen, please, in assorted colours.”
Beth laughed. “I’m quite disappointed, actually. I imagined the head offices of MI5 would be different, somehow, more … James Bondish, or at least Spooks. It all seems so ordinary.”
“Ah, that’s just a front, put on to deceive. That’s what we want you to think. Good to know it’s working.” He moved a heap of files and sat on the edge of the desk. “Beth, can you tell me which parts of London you’re familiar with?”
“Why?”
“Just some idea I had about where the terrorists operate from. Probably won’t help.”
“Well, Islington, of course, and Hackney. Parts of the City, and round Shoreditch.” She paused as Nick got out a notebook and pen, to give him time to write them down. “The West End, especially Oxford Street. Covent Garden, Camden Lock; Finchley a bit; Regents Park, Victoria Park … that’s about it. Obviously, I’ve been to other parts of London, but I don’t know them that well.”
“Anywhere else?”
“Not that I can think of …” He closed the notebook and put it back in his pocket. Luckily, Beth didn’t seem to think his request odd; something else appeared to be on her mind. She said, “I don’t suppose you know if they’ll let me have my old job back, once the threat’s over, I mean?”
No chance. Pete wouldn’t trust McKinnis not to let something slip. “No idea, I’m afraid. The Smailes might know, but getting anything out of her is like pulling teeth. She wouldn’t tell you the time unless you’d submitted the request through the proper channels and she’d had it analysed, checked by committee, and authorized for release.”
“I don’t see why they shouldn’t. I was wondering if they’d got a temp in. Perhaps I’ll ring the Prof and ask him.” She glanced at the phone beside her. So did Nick.
“Gordon Bennett, it’s got a dial! Does it work? I don’t believe that phone. Or the computer. It’s like this office exists in its own little time warp. If you have to order stuff, why not order yourself a new phone and computer?”
Beth laughed, but seemed taken with the idea. “I couldn’t, could I? The computer’s really slow. Wouldn’t Moira be annoyed when she found out? I do have to do a big office supplies order this afternoon …”
“If it stopped working she couldn’t object.”
Beth leant forward and her voice went lower. Her eyes were wide, amused and very blue. “You mean, sabotage? If I took the fuse out of the plug or something?”
“Something like that. Go for it.” Nick stood up. “I’ve sowed a bit of subversion, my work here is done. See you tonight.”
Beth grinned at him as he left. He hadn’t seen her this animated before; he thought how pretty she looked. She’d seemed pleased to see him, too. Bored out of her mind and delighted to see anyone, no doubt.
Replica ~ Lexi Revellian
CHAPTER 20
Strays
I spent Monday furnishing my new flat. It’s amazing what Londoners throw out on the streets; I’d never really noticed it before, but now I began to think anything at all would turn up abandoned on the pavement if you only waited long enough. I experienced a new-found enthusiasm for scavenging; it was like urban beachcombing, and in my absorption even forgot to look over my shoulder for Sir Peter’s henchmen. All the walking and lugging stuff about kept me warm, in spite of my hunger.
I got a typist’s chair, fine except for a hole in the upholstery, and a pine table with just one wonky leg. (I had to go back with the supermarket trolley to fetch that.) I found an airer, handy for if I worked out how to wash my clothes, some carpet offcuts, a bucket with dried white paint in it for a lavatory, four two litre plastic Coca-Cola bottles to hold water, and a hat stand. Also a lot of A4 paper, several recent glossy magazines, and a big mirror with the corner broken off.
Once I had the mirror, I used my stolen kohl pencil to make my eyes dramatically dark, then applied the deep plum lipstick. It did make me look different; quite attractive, too, against my pale skin. My usual make-up is more discreet, and I don’t like the feel of lipstick so seldom wear it.
What I really wanted was a mattress, and I found one; but it was a double, and a long way from home. I also remembered reading somewhere that you should never take a thrown-away mattress, in case it has bed bugs. An off-putting thought, but not off-putting enough, had the mattress been a single nearer the flat. I reminded myself that I wouldn’t be staying here long. The other Beth should get my letter today or tomorrow.
When I finished what I was beginning to think of as my work for the day at about seven o’clock, I walked to the Barbican, but no note had been left for me. On the way back I found a final treasure, a small gothic revival bookcase, unwieldy but not too heavy for me to be able to carry. I got to the flats just as snow began to fall in earnest, and lugged it carefully and quietly up the derelict staircase. A dim line of light showed below the door of the flat with the cat. I was tiptoeing past when the door opened. A man stood there, slim but strong-looking in jeans and an anorak, holding a small black cat. I froze.
“Hi,” he said, looking me over. “Are you move in upstairs?” His accent was Eastern European of some kind.
“Yes.”
“You want put lock on the door. Keep out the kids, and the drug addicts.” He sounded quite normal, and didn’t smell or look any scruffier than most people. Less scruffy than me, probably. The cat seemed to like him, pushing its head against his hand to be stroked.
“I haven’t got the money for a lock.”
“Oh, that is not so good. Basically, the worst ones, the ones who break up the place, they come in the evenings, so if you are here then, you put barrier against door, you keep them out.”
“Thanks …” I smiled awkwardly, and continued up the stairs. He watched me go, then retreated into his flat.
No one had been in my place since I was last there – or maybe the man downstairs had, but nothing had been moved or taken. I wedged the sheet of ply in the hall, lit a candle and stood it by the back wall, to prevent the light being seen from outside. I wrapped myself in the blanket and opened the drawer to check my dwindling provisions; I wanted to eat the whole lot, but that would be silly. A tap on the door made me jump. I got up stealthily, crept under the plywood and listened at the jamb, heart pounding. The idea of being cornered here, with people outside trying to get in, was unnerving.
“Hello, is Jarek from downstairs. Your neighbour.”
“What is it?” My voice sounded thin and anxious.
“I make stew. Do you want some?”
“Thank you. Hang on, I’ll just shift this …” I heaved the ply upright, blew out the candle, and joined my host on the dark stairs.
He had a torch which he directed at the floor, and we followed its pool of light down the unreliable stairs. He got out a key and opened his door. Inside was positively hot, with a smell of cooking and washing powder. A wood-burning stove’s little window glowed over in the corner, its stove pipe turning a right angle and exiting through a hole in the boarded up kitchen window. On its flat top a large battered saucepan bubbled away. Clothes hung from a washing line above, steaming gently, and on a cushion close by the cat was curled.
“That’s amazing – what a lovely stove.”
“There is much wood on the streets. I bring wood from work, too.” He went over to the stove, lifted the lid and peered at the stew. He picked up a wooden spoon. “What is your name, please?”
“Leo.” My birth sign.
“Welcome, Leo.”
“What do you do – what is your work?”
“I am builder.”
The flat was exactly the same layout as mine, but he must have been there some time. He obviously lived in this one room, not using the bedroom; a mattress was made up in the corner with a duvet and pillow beside a small wardrobe; shelves and cupboards held orderly rows of tins, vegetables, crockery, and cutlery. A modern cream sofa stood against the wall, with a coffee table in front of it. Tea lights in jam jars here and there lit the place up. A patchwork of carpet offcuts covered the floor.
“You’re very well organized. Supposing someone sees the light and realizes you’re here?” Virtually the whole of one wall was windows, and they faced on to the roundabout.
He shrugged. “Who will care? I think the owners have no money, basically. They do not pay the security, no one comes. The kids make trouble for the drunk downstairs – they set fire to his flat one time – but I have lock on my door, they do not give me trouble.”
This was all very well, but he wasn’t being hunted by MI5. He must have seen my anxiety, as he gave me a shrewd glance and winked.
“I light extra candles for you. Normally, I have one only. If it worry you, I blow some out.”
While he did that, I wandered over to a wooden table by the window, keeping in the shadow by the wall. Snow whirled outside, white everywhere except for the brief tracks made by occasional cars. On the table, knives, saws, sand paper, chisels and a vice were laid in a row; hand-carved chessmen stood in rank.
“Wow, these are lovely. Can I pick them up?”
He nodded. The white chessmen were made from pale wood with dark accoutrements, and the black ones the other way about. The pieces were chunky and medieval in style, with pointed helmets, maces and battle axes, polished and smooth to the hand. They smelled agreeably of linseed oil. The knights sat on proper horses with shields and swords, the king wore a crown and a beard. The queen had long hair and a calm, benign smile. They were delightful – it seemed unlikely that the man who lovingly carved these was a danger to anyone.
“I make them evenings. No television, no computer, so I make chessmen.”
As he spoke he spooned the stew into three glass bowls. He put two on a low table, the other on a high shelf, then opened the stove’s ash pan and got out two silver foil packages. Unwrapped, they turned out to be jacket potatoes. He cut them in half, put them on plates, and added butter and salt.
“Sit, eat.”
The stew was good, though not at all like the stew I make, and I missed dumplings. I think the meat was from a tin, and there were unfamiliar ingredients like peas and beetroot, but it was the first hot homemade meal I’d had for ages and I wolfed it down as soon as it was cool enough. Jarek helped me to more without asking if I wanted any, and while he was there put the third portion on the floor. The cat had got up expectantly at the same time as his owner, and started eating directly.
“He likes vegetables?” Inky Pink, if he hadn’t turned up his nose at the whole thing, would have picked out the bits of meat with a sniffy expression on his face and left the rest.
“He is stray, he eat everything.” He smiled. “Bit like you. He is stray cat, you are stray human.”
This observation made my face go hot. Of course people are reaching conclusions regarding you all the time, but it’s disconcerting when they suddenly bring it to your attention. I said, “What about you, then? Aren’t you a stray?”
He shook his head. “No, I am legal immigrant. I have work, I have family in Poland. Is my choice live here to send them more money. One day, I go home. I take Keechoo with me.” He nodded towards the cat. There was a pause. “You not want to tell me about yourself, is okay. I do not ask.”
When we’d finished eating, Jarek suggested we play chess. I told him I wasn’t much good, but he said that was okay and got out a small plastic set, as the wooden ones were not yet complete. He fetched a bottle and two small glasses.
“Vodka?”
“Thank you.”
Jarek filled the glasses and handed me one. “Na Zdrowie!” he said, and knocked it back.
I copied what he had said. “Naz drovia! Cheers.” The vodka burned on the way down, and made me cough. He laughed, thumped me on the back and refilled the glasses. I moved a white knight forward. He won that game with extreme ease.
“Basically, is true, you are not much good,” he said, judicially. “We play checkers?”
I used to play draughts with my father, and the contest was more even; I won the first game, he the second. He tried to teach me some Polish words while we played. It’s a really difficult language to pronounce, and we both got the giggles, fuelled by another couple of vodkas. He said, “Basically, I think my cat learn Polish better. Maybe I teach cat instead.”
I felt more cheerful. I’d had a hot meal and company, was warm as toast all over, had somewhere safe to sleep, and tomorrow my letter would arrive and everything would be all right. I didn’t stay late. I got to my feet, thanked Jarek for the meal and the vodka, and he dismissed my thanks.
“You can stay here, if you like.” It’s too small, I wouldn’t have any privacy, but it is warm … “I do not have girlfriend.” Oh, he means … how awkward …
“Thank you, Jarek, but I have a boyfriend.”
“Where is boyfriend?”
“I don’t know,” I said sadly. “It’s complicated …” Not quite true; that part of my life was simple, Rob was no longer my boyfriend; except for the fact the other Beth was still going out with him.
He insisted on walking upstairs with me, in case anyone was around. I was relieved as the icy cavernous staircase was spooky in the dark; I imagined that man Sir Peter sent waiting silently for me in the shadows. I wondered where he was right now, and shivered. Once I’d checked my flat was empty, I turned.
“Thanks, Jarek. What’s ‘goodnight’ in Polish?”
“Dobranoc.”
I repeated it, and closed the door.
Replica ~ Lexi Revellian
CHAPTER 21
Warm on a cold night
A new job is always tiring at first, Beth thought, looking forward to letting herself into her warm flat and putting her feet up before she got supper. As she walked down her road she scanned the vehicles. Ah, there they were, in a British Gas van today. Goodness, they must be cold. She gave a little wave, then seeing Nick’s expression – resignation mixed with something unidentifiable – wondered whether she should have pretended not to see them. Ollie smiled at her. She liked Ollie. He had one of those unmistakably nice faces you knew could not belong to an unpleasant person.
Her day hadn’t been too bad; just a bit boring. She hadn’t exactly taken Nick’s advice – after all, he’d been joking – but she had found her way to the I.T
. department, and asked if she could possibly have a more modern computer, and the man had been really helpful and friendly. He’d told her to leave it with him, and that same afternoon he’d brought one up and installed it, then stayed and chatted for half an hour. The computer was fast, with Windows 7. Beth was pleased with this modest triumph. And she’d gone into one of the other offices on her floor – they all seemed to be empty except for hers – and switched her chair for a comfortable one that was adjustable. She ate lunch in the canteen, but of course didn’t know anyone to talk to. Moira had not been back to see how she was getting on, and she hadn’t even met Jo, her notional boss. It had been lonely, working on her own all day, but she hadn’t really minded; she might take in one or two bits and pieces to cheer her office up tomorrow, or buy another pot plant as company for the ailing one already there. Make it more homelike. She remembered the shed she’d made her own as a child in Scotland; it was a bit like that …
“Ink the Pink! Have you had a nice day? What would you like tonight, the fish or the chicken? Not liver, you had that yesterday.” Beth opened the cupboard door and ran her eye down the stack of tins. “Ah, chicken’s off … fish then, I expect that’s what you wanted anyway …”
She fed the cat and poured herself a glass of wine as a treat after her first day at Thames House, opened the fridge and wondered what to make for supper. Yes, stew and dumplings, delicious and warming for a cold December night; there’d be enough cooking time if she got it on straight away, and while it cooked she could have a comforting soak in a hot bath. She fried the steak and chopped onions, carrots and parsnips. The stew came to the boil as she peeled potatoes and measured out dumpling ingredients.
Lying in the bath, watching the wavering reflections on the water, Beth wondered about Rob. He hadn’t rung since cancelling their date for the second time, so she hadn’t yet told him about her change of job. Rob didn’t do huffs, that wasn’t the reason he hadn’t rung. Most likely he’d got caught up in whatever he was doing and just hadn’t thought of her. Perhaps she should ring him, in case he thought she was sulking … Beth slid under the water till only her nose and her knees stuck out, then surfaced and reached for the shampoo.